


Midnight Swim

by Unquiet_Grave



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Complicated Relationships, Dark Humor, Dep Can't Swim and John Thinks it's Hilarious, Drama & Romance, F/M, Forgiveness, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, In a demented John way, Omens & Portents, One Shot, Phobias, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weird Ways of Apologizing: A Guide by John Seed, also kinda cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unquiet_Grave/pseuds/Unquiet_Grave
Summary: "Why did you leave Nick's keys in front of me, back at the bunker? You had me. You could have done as you wanted with me. I was your prisoner. Why, John?"Still kneeling, he met her eyes. He recited, without any slips or hesitations, "Be not against me, to desire that I should leave thee and depart. For whithersoever thou shalt go, I will go. And where thou shalt dwell, I also will dwell. Thy people shall be my people."**There's more than fish and bliss in the waters of the Holland Valley tonight.





	Midnight Swim

**Author's Note:**

> K, I was thinking how much it would suck for the Dep to have aquaphobia in Hope County, and this is the brainchild of that lol. Who better to help guide you through your worst nightmare than John Seed, right? *_* Yup, it's another Rook/John piece! It could /technically/ tie into the other one-shot I posted (Autre Temps), but it's not necessary to have read it. 
> 
> Just assume they're up to their usual antics, only they've taken on a confused/romantic angle. I'm taking a break from writing actual original content, to get down these scenes that won't. Leave. Me. Alone. Then maybe I can work on my own stuff for once, lol. ;x

Crackling flames. Singing crickets. Her heart, racing in her chest.

Three things Rook knew, and not much else. 

Until a fourth thing shouted, making her jump out of her skin.

"Yes! I think we're finally ready."

John Seed's words rang, loud and clear, despite the burlap sack covering her head. She recognized his voice, anywhere. It followed her footsteps, haunted her, wherever she went. 

"Go on. Relieve her of her burden."

Someone lifted the sack off her head roughly. Rook sucked in a breath of fresh, nighttime air with just a hint of algae in it. A great relief, from the hot staleness of her blindfold. The first thing she saw was the lit globe of the full moon, hanging in the sky. The second was the firelight from the torches. The third...

"Greetings, Deputy!"

Rook started with a tiny yelp.

A victorious John lowered his grinning face in front of hers. The torches cast roving shadows on him, wild lights reflecting in his eyes. But nothing was as horrifying as his perfect smile. Her heart raced like a rabbit's. Her hands were tied behind her back, preventing her from returning John's greeting with a slug to the nose, so she said nothing.

Crickets chirped, oblivious to her plight.

She looked around, at the pools of torchlight. Beyond John, a square, black hole opened up in the ground. Several Peggie guards stood around it. The ones that weren't carrying rifles had shovels in their hands. Grim smiles, not quite to the degree of John's, on their faces.

"W-what..." She licked her dry lips. Her hair clung to her forehead like plant roots.

She croaked, "What is this? An execution?"

John ignored her question. He splayed his tattooed arms wide.

"We have come here, tonight, for something _very_ special. These men have been kind enough to assist."

He turned to face them, bereft of his overcoat, dressed in his usual clothing. Something was grasped in his right hand. Too dark to see what. Rook swallowed. 

"But now, gentlemen, your work here is finished. This next part must be done in private. Leave us."

The men nodded in understanding and left, no questions asked. Nothing but herself, the summer woods, the moonlit sky, the nearby babbling of the creek. John, looking about as excited as a kid at a toy store.

The open grave.

Speechless, she could only stare. She would _not_ give him the satisfaction of begging for her life. Though, wretched tears still pooled in her eyes, despite all her resolve. She cracked, and gave him a betrayed look.

"Confused?" He tilted his head at the question.

"Not really," she muttered, words grinding like rust against her teeth. "It's pretty obvious, your intentions. Just didn't think it would end like this."

He smirked. One of his capable hands reached for her face. She winced, shutting her eyes, bracing for the pierce of a blade, or the clamp of his hand around her throat.

Softness, against her cheek. Feather-light. She opened her eyes. Well, that made sense. He was caressing her cheek with a feather, saying,

"It's true, I should punish you. Running out on me, the way you did. Avoiding your atonement for what, a third time now? At the very least, a lesson needs to be taught."

 _Need to be alive, to learn a lesson,_  she thought, with a glimmer of hope.  _Maybe this isn't what I think it is. Then again, they went through all that effort to dig that police-sized hole. Fuck._

She straightened her spine.

"Four," she corrected, taking small pleasure in how his smile wavered. "You forgot the night I arrested your brother. Guess you suck at math, as much as you suck at your job."

CRACK!

He slapped her. Hard enough to swivel her face into her shoulder. The sound exploded in the quiet, dark spot in middle-of-nowhere.

"Be respectful, my dear. I know it's late, and you're tired. You didn't mean that. And I  _loathe_ to cause you pain. Not unless you  _beg_ for it, of course."

 _When did he start calling me 'dear'?_ she wondered.  _Guess that roll in the hay in his bunker left a few pieces stuck to him._

She wasn't so sure there weren't some clinging to her, either. No amount of running around the other parts of Hope County had seemed to shake him from her thoughts. Hard to tell, though, when she was numb all over.

John moved the feather to the other side of her face, tracing up, and down, ever-so-gently. Rook's eye twitched. Her nose tickled. Her face fucking _hurt_. She stood rigid as ice, frozen. For good reason. He was being playful with her.

And she knew he liked to play with things, before he killed them.

She tried not to stare at the hole in the ground, over his shoulder. It lay in wait, silent and tortuously patient.

John followed her gaze, energy brimming in his bright, blue eyes. He inched closer, until they were almost nose-to-nose. He was taller than her by a few inches, even in boots. The Pegs had left those on her feet, for some reason. The rest of her was clad only in a secondhand, crinkled white dress, her hair released from its usual constraints. That glimmer of hope grew to a shine.  _You always take the shoes off a dead person. They left me mine._

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"You know," he drawled, pausing. "Leaving me alone, with that rotting corpse, _inspired_ something, in me. As an artist, I'm always looking for inspiration. So I should be _thanking_ you."

"Oh God."

John's gratitude. _Not_ something she wanted.

He chuckled.

"Found your faith, at last? Maybe that time in my sister's region did you good."

On that hopeful note, his other hand reached out. His fingers traced along the curve of her bare shoulder, thumb pressing against her collar bone, as if it were a button he was trying to press, make her agree. It was so bold, so sudden, she drew back as if snake-bit, nearly tripping over her own boots.

John remained where he was. He held the feather in his hands, twirling it deftly. Staring at her, working something over in his head.

"I encounter this problem all the time, with airplane parts."

She blinked.

"We need to find the place where you fit. Where you belong," he continued, lifting a finger. "And that apparently isn't anywhere in Hope County. Not in the air."

He held the hawk feather aloft, for emphasis.

 _Always striving to be extra, that John_ ,she thought.

"Nor the water."

He pointed with the sharp tip of it, in the direction of the noisy creek.

_Fancy a little dip? Maybe pick up where we left off?_

"That only leaves one place, I think."

_FUCK._

Rook's eyes widened.

She tried to bolt for it, but he grabbed both her shoulders from behind, spinning her around. Wrestling against her, marching her toward that ominous opening in the ground. In his grasp, her disobedient legs went along with him, wobbling, full of gelatin. The rest of her wasn't much better off. Glass, about to shatter. That Bliss bullet really did a number. Or maybe it was just time, finally wearing her down. She had escaped him four times, true. But he always caught her, in the end.

John's rough beard tickled the sensitive space behind her ear, hot breath puffing against her neck. She shuddered. Her belly betrayed her next, heat flaring where it had absolutely no right to.

"Maybe, Deputy, your place is in the earth," John murmured.

Grasping her by her restraints, he leaned her over the lip of the grave, until all she could see was its darkened mouth, opened wide to swallow her. She quivered all over, but didn't make a sound...

* * *

...John only stopped digging when his blistered palms couldn't take it anymore.

Squaring shoulders that burned with every movement, sweating through his clothes, he upended a pile of dirt onto the grave. That done, he speared the shovel into the mud. One hand rested on his flat stomach, his other elbow on the tip of the handle. Breath came, controlled, labored, silent, between his partly cracked lips, the tips of his teeth exposed. The mid-morning sun beat down on his back, turning his neck and ears a shade of scarlet. He'd stopped just once before, on account of all the blood, making his hands slip. 

A minor inconvenience. It was still there, a layer of dried burgundy on the handle. Reminding him of wine. Easier times. But, of course, that was just the Sloth in him, trying to get his way. He was ever-vigilant of his sin, unlike _some_ people.

If he had to confess, wine sounded divine. The only alcohol he ever allowed to touch his lips, and that was seldom. Special occasions only. He had a savory Bordeaux in mind, saving it for the day he recaptured the Deputy and finally won her confession, raising a glass in the privacy of his room, or perhaps from the balcony of his ranch. 

Instead, he raised his hands, scrutinizing the ragged bandages wrapped around them. Agitated, red stigmata the only indication of his raw nerve endings.

John might have shrugged, had he not been so winded. He wiped his brow on his sleeve instead. The pain was finally catching up to his racing mind. He ticketed it away, just another hole punch in the series of repercussions from poor decisions made, lately. _She_ had that effect on him, made his head more chaotic than a hornet's nest. Worse than the worst hangover, that woman.

He sighed forlornly.

One hand gripped the other, his clever inquisitor's fingers prying the wounds, probing, testing the sensitivity, the depth of the damage. Once, the pain would have brought tears to his eyes, threatening to undo his resolve. Nowadays, it served him, a blunt and honest friend, his closest companion. While resting, he stared at a set of small footprints leading away from the abandoned trailer behind him, into the woods. They wound a little to the right, the left, and then to the right again. As if the mind behind them couldn't quite decide, where it had wanted to go. As if there had been some hesitation. 

Lord knew, she'd had time to mull it over. _What else could it have been?_ John's lips thinned smugly. He had some idea, and he served Eden's Gate in so many ways, but a mind-reader, he was not. His job would be way less...satisfactory...were that the case. He added the question to the litany of ones he would ask the Deputy, the next time he had her alone. She was _long_ overdue for an interrogation.

The time was coming to collect her again.  _Soon._ Let her run in the woods and play her little games. He had caught her before. He would catch her again.

Some commotion distracted him from his murky thoughts, up in the trees. Nesting birds, squawking and twittering up a storm. An annoyed crow jumped from his branch, swooped over John, and glided behind the trailer. It showed no interest in the contents of the grave. Probably because he was still around to tend it, like a human scarecrow. That crow would need a bulldozer, to get to his dinner plans, now.

 _Such cowards, rooks. Always quick to flee._ Her early-morning disappearance had been somewhat of a disappointment, he admitted. One would think, helping her land Nick Rye's plane in a thunderstorm, plucking her terrified self out the rushing waters, might have instilled some good faith between them. Enough to get her back in his bunker, maybe. But no, evidently not. Pity. Her departure frustrated him, motivated him enough to give _John Doe_ a proper burial. He knew the man's name, but he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud.

 _More than he deserves, honestly._  But John followed his brother's religion and laws without question. Well, okay, _most_ of them. A burial and rites were due, regardless of what he thought of the man. So, when morning had come, with no Deputy to harass, he had done his duty, rolled the guy up like a cigar in his blankets, and dug a six-foot hole for him. Wouldn't be the first body he rolled up in a sheet. Wouldn't be the last.

He was not a squeamish man, that John. His brother and savior had taught him the value of getting his hands dirty.

He returned his icy gaze to the trail, and his mouth quivered into a coy smile, one he concealed by wiping his dry, cracked lips with the back of his hand. Those wayward footprints gave him hope, telling him _everything_  he needed to know. John hummed his satisfaction aloud. Still doubting, still unconvinced, his unconverted one. That would change. God, and of course Joseph, had told him it would. One way or another, he would break through her shell. It was his divine purpose. That had not changed, despite all that had transpired between them.

But for now, all he felt like doing was digging graves.

A morbid business, to be sure. Not exactly a mood-setter, but to be frank, John was in no mood for anything, other than sleep. And that included last night.

They'd found the trailer, caught in the pouring rain and lightning. Rook had insisted they knock, announce themselves, but neither of them much cared about what awaited them on the other side. The storm was the only thing concerning them. Somewhat of a relief, really, given current events. The Rye's plane had been abandoned, just a tad off the mark from his ranch or their house, floating somewhere near the Henbane. His own aircraft was hidden in the brush, just off the side of a stretch of road, where he'd pulled off an award-worthy landing only his brothers might have believed.

All in all, a fun, eventful night. But one with much less atoning than he would have liked. _Patience, patience_. John's thumb caressed the end of the shovel handle, finding a chipped groove in the wood. He dug his nail in, scraping it along the interior, deepening the cut.

Eventually, Rook had kicked the door open, like a proper cop. Done a quick sweep of the place. Nothing was off about it, it was a normal trailer, typical of the region: same scratchy orange couch with cigarette burns, same cheap linoleum floors, same stained counter tops and mismatching lawn decorations and dusty Bible, American flag hanging above the television. The only strange thing was that the bedroom door was barred from the other side. No amount of effort could get it open. It bothered her, raised some instinct she had. Rook kept casting sideways glances, not trying to hide it from him. John couldn't have cared less.

He was too focused on her, and the weapons tucked snugly into her belt. Weapons she had lifted off his men, when she had invaded his ranch and stolen  _his_ plane, thank you very much. The Ryes had forfeited it with their noncompliance. Yes, Lord, yellow might not have been John's color, but pettiness suited him just fine.

To the tune of the rain, thunder, and lightning, Rook had taken the couch. John had hesitated, as to where to sleep. For a moment, their eyes met, a low, electric current undulating between them. Such close quarters might have driven him to try something, but they were both too soaked and miserable. He never even received a thank you, for taking the floor! Rook had curled up in a ball, a towel wrapped around her head, his own resting on a knit-covered pillow (the design was a beer and wine can holding hands, 'Best Friends Forever', if memory served), and that was all he saw of her: the curve of her back, beneath some redneck's eagle blanket.

He had no trouble falling asleep in storms. It was the quiet that got to him. He slept like a newborn.

Until, an hour later, when she woke him with a violent slap to the face.

 _"What the FUCK!?_  "

He'd jerked awake with a snarl, sitting up, oblivious to the pounding in his jaw, the sting bringing tears to his eyes. He made a mental note to teach her a thing or two about the importance of _restraint,_ later. He could have throttled her on the spot, and she looked liable enough to squeeze his windpipe into a straw. It took a half hour, for Rook to calm down enough to utter something.

_"In the back. I got the door open. The back...Jesus..."_

That was when John went and discovered the body in the bedroom for himself. Laying on the bed for some time, judging by the state of things. He also discovered the note on the bed stand. Just a man. A father. A dead, festering corpse.

What little sadistic, romantic inclinations had been swimming, circling about his skull were finally purged.  _Just my luck._

John recognized the John Doe's last name. But he was so drained, all he could think of was going back to sleep. He'd been up for three days straight, thanks to Little Miss Wrath, pacing in front of him with dark circles under her eyes, which, no matter their state, always seemed to draw his attention.

_"I can NOT deal with this right now."_

_"Likewise, Deputy. You look like you're about to keel over and join him."_

_"Ugh. Let's just try and sleep."_

They shut the bedroom door, opened the windows, tried to get back to some semblance of rest. He heard her tossing and turning, before falling into a dreamless sleep. The last thing on his mind had been the man's note: his only daughter, the one person he had in the world, had abandoned him to join Eden's Gate. He didn't claim to be a perfect man, but he had thought their bond was stronger, purer than that. He didn't see much point in living, now that she had found a new family and chosen them, over blood.

That had been all Rook needed to set her off.

 _"This is Eden's Gate's fault, which means this is YOUR fault! Splitting families in two. You read the note, she was ALL he had._ _Have you NO shame?"_

Another time, he would have relished a heated argument with her, but John stood there with his arms out, a 'what do you want from me, I just saved your life TWICE' look. Didn't feel like explaining himself to her. He'd slumped down on the floor, thrown the blanket over his eyes, leaving everything to sweet oblivion. It surprised him, to hear the couch springs compress, instead of the front door slam. He smiled to himself, coarse blanket fibers tickling his cheeks. Even the wrathful knew the importance of catching some z's after a few nights of running, flying, landing, (and lusting) all over God's good country.

She would forgive him eventually. The devil was in cheap wormwood walls, and if Rook had taken time to look around the trailer, the details might have jumped at her. To put it simply, that man's daughter was much, much better off in Eden's Gate.

_"This whole thing is sick. It has to stop. You realize that, don't you, John? Don't just stand there. Say something!"_

Tears in her eyes, then, magnifying the wrath. So eager for a reason to be angry with him, despite him saving her damned life. Not to mention he hadn't rubbed it in her face, her little secret, one she had divulged to him  _in extremis._ Oh, he could have. Could have salted the wounds, and with anyone else, he would have let them have it. But they were building trust, coming closer together. Slowly but surely. 

He would have to tell her the truth, himself. He had plans to speak with her again, soon. It thrilled him, got his heart fluttering, just thinking about their next reunion. The things in her, he would expose.

First thing's first, though. Ignoring the wicked pains in his hands, his back, his shoulders, and everywhere in between, John finished filling out the grave. He had no headstone. Only a rain-dampened copy of the  _Book of Joseph_ to read from. He read the funeral rites. Lay some flowers on the grave. Said all that was needed, with proper respect, and nothing more.

That done, thinking what she might have to say about it, were she there, John sucked the last bit of moisture from his lips, mixed with a little blood (they were still cut from where she'd bitten and sucked him all over, like a blood-starved succubus, in the confession room) and spit on the grave.

Good riddance. He turned away, resisting the urge to dust off his hands on his jeans. The deed was done. He could focus on what mattered. John wiped a bloody streak across his forehead. They had so much to talk about. He'd learned volumes about her, the past few days. He had no intention of slowing down his...education, of her. His plane was waiting.

All he had to do was take to the skies and fetch her.

And what would he do, once he had her back? What did God have in store for them? What would please Joseph the most? Please himself? John frowned. Perhaps that was the wrong word. 'Pleasure' and 'pain' were so interchangeable, he sometimes misused them.

He twirled the shovel in his bleeding hands. Over and over, spinning it, coating it in red. He had a few ideas. Oh, boy, did the ideas flow. They seeped into his veins and flooded his system with fresh adrenaline. Hard to believe he had ever been tired. He twirled it faster, giddy with possibilities. The playfulness did not match his face, somewhat pinched. His eyes narrowed. His mind felt...treacherous...full of reckless rapids, churning whirlpools. Stranded on an island in the middle: snapping dogs, at each other's throats. Some of them white as Jacob's Judges. Some, blacker than sin.

That might make an interesting tattoo design. He filed it away for later. In addition to a whip-smart lexicon, John often thought in images. Most of the time, he could make some sense of them. He took comfort in his inner world, as he had as a damaged, broken boy. But not this time.

This time, a frostbitten finger dragged, slowly, down his spinal cord. The shovel stopped turning. John shivered, and let the images translate into words:  _To punish, or not to punish. To forgive, or not to forgive. To listen to Joseph, or do what the defensive part of him, his violent protectors, goaded him to do-_

-A keening cry drew him from his thoughts. He looked up.

A red-tailed hawk burst from the trees in a flutter of pinions, mobbed by the nesting birds he'd heard earlier. It swooped overhead, wingspan shadow dancing over John, blotting out the sun for a moment before it wheeled around with more precision than his clunky, metal aircraft could ever manage. The attackers dove and harassed the bigger bird, the invader, growing more aggressive with each wave. They pecked and went for the eyes. The hawk wavered a moment, narrowly missed a branch that might have knocked it unconscious, flapping its wings to keep the attackers at bay.

Another keen, this time higher pitched.

Its mate came to the rescue. A female, if his eyes served him right. She shot like a bullet overhead, sharp talons outstretched. With a few flaps and dives, twisting with aeronautic grace, she scared the mob away. Together, the two hawks gained speed, flying splendidly in tandem, over the tree line and out of his sight. Safe, perhaps a little hungry, a little more wary. Larger, fiercer birds lurked in the skies in that wild country. Who knew, what tomorrow would bring for them. 

It wasn't until they had gone, that John noticed the feather in the dirt. Large, with a brown striped pattern, probably dropped by the male. He snatched it up, tucking it reverently into his pocket. His face softened, pensive. He ran into the trailer, retrieving his waterlogged overcoat, and nothing else.

John headed for the woods, his boots cutting a straight line through Rook's scatterbrained trail.

* * *

Rook peered back over her shoulder, at the blank face of the man dangling her over a precipice. Well, one could hardly call the ledge of a six-foot hole a _precipice,_ but the void called to her. She did her best to ignore it.

John let her dangle, a moment longer.

Then, he pulled her up and flush against him. His body was startlingly hot. His free arm wrapped around her, holding her in a tight vice. The heels of her boots teetered on the ledge.

He held out the feather, flipped it around, and pressed the pointed tip against her lip. Scanning her face, he chuckled low. 

"To think, you had this wonderful secret, all along."

The feather was sharp, but he didn't press hard enough to break the skin. His words came faint, over the clamor of her heartbeat, the trill of the crickets, the wind in the trees.

"It dies tonight," he told her. Determined. Fierce.

"W-what does?"

He removed the feather, leading her away from the hole, one arm hooking her by the elbow. _Oh, thank God._ Her limbs flooded with relief. She tested her restraints for the umpteenth time, ropes digging into her wrists as she wiggled them. Nope. Not going anywhere.

"The fear you divulged to me, in your moment of weakness," he explained, pointing to the grave. "It must die, tonight."

He started unbuttoning his vest, but she hardly noticed. Not at first.

"What fear?" 

She had an entire encyclopedia of those, since crash-landing in Hope County. _Let me count the ways, in which you and your brothers have mortified me._

John finished unbuttoning his vest, casting it away. He started on his boot laces next, bending over. His quick fingers made short work of them.

"Your deepest one, my dear."

 _There he goes with that 'dear' shit again._ She still didn't pay much mind, trying to distract him. She thought about kicking him, while he was bent over. Maybe get him into an MMA-style stranglehold. But what good would it do? Those guards would hear his bellows, come running after her. She wasn't so sure they weren't surrounding them now, keeping quiet and hidden in the woods.  _Jerks._

"You're gonna have to elaborate, John. It's been a few weeks since I've seen you," she reminded him.

"The one that wouldn't let you jump out of that plane, across the water. The one that's crippled you, all these years, stopped you from being your true self. I know these things intimately."

Boots and socks off, John slid off his belt, and that time Rook did raise her eyebrow, color creeping up her neck. But he wasn't done. He approached her, and knelt down. His sudden closeness, his exposed neck and back, made her blush like a teenager. It wasn't right. She should be infuriated. Scared. She should strike at him, and make a break for it.

Instead, she stayed put, transfixed. _Must be something in the air. Can't think straight._ Her eyes fixated on the hawk feather, tucked behind John's ear.

He slid one of her boots off, and set it aside. He guided her foot back to the dirt with his warm hands. She had forgotten to lower it.

"Fear is a sin, Deputy. It prevents us from doing what needs to be done."

He started on her other boot, shoulder nudging her leg. She would never get a better window. She longed, yes...longed to reach out, and twirl that feather in her fingers, as he had done. The image of a hawk, soaring in the sky, floated into her mind. Two of them, actually.

"You helped me land Nick's plane, during that storm," she recalled.

John grunted, refusing to look at her.

"You got me out of the water. And you let me go, both times, the morning after. Why did you leave Nick's keys in front of me, back at the bunker? You had me. You could have done as you wanted with me. I was your prisoner. _Why_ , John?"

Still kneeling, he met her eyes. He recited, without any slips or hesitations, "Be not against me, to desire that I should leave thee and depart. For whithersoever thou shalt go, I will go. And where thou shalt dwell, I also will dwell. Thy people shall be my people."

Rook shut her mouth, trembling, though she wasn't cold.

Barefoot, relieved of their burdens, John led her over to a different sort of precipice. The edge of the creek.

She spun around.

"Um, what are you doing?"

He chuckled again. "What? I'm _helping_ you."

She pulled against him, but he had her by her restraints. She was unaware, of how he was inching her forward. The waters ran, deep and dark, commanding her to stare. The moon's light rippled on the surface, like a spell. Dizziness overtook her. Dread coated her tongue like acid. She forgot all about John, and her confused feelings toward him. About Eden's Gate. About Hope County. The sight of the deep water hypnotized her.

Until John half-sang,

"Let the water wash away your sin, Deputy."

And he pushed her in.

"Ack! John, no! Please!"

He pulled her, splashing, up to her knees in the cold water. A frightening reel of the night of her baptism played, over and over, in her head.

"Shhh! This is what you need," he reassured. "We cannot delay!"

She fought him, but he dragged her in deeper. Soon her dress floated around her waist. Her feet slipped on the rocks. She stubbed her toe on one and yelped. Cold, it was  _so_   _cold_. Her lips shivered, her skin breaking into goosebumps. Her pleas and cries and curses devolved into helpless whimpers, the further out John took her. Oh, this was the worst form of torture. It had taken a few encounters, for him to learn, but learn he had.

She was terrified, but still had the strength to resist.

Once she was up to her shoulders, true panic gripped her, and she lost it.

"Bastard! I fucking HATE you!" she spat. "Never should have trusted you! Never should have thought that-"

"Thought  _what_?" he implored, pausing.

She sucked up water, and burst into a coughing fit. Up to his chest, his shirt soaked, collar open, John smiled, drawing her to look upon his face. _He thinks this is funny. Asshole._

The moment passed, and she was back to rolling her eyes in her head, floundering.

"Trust me, Deputy," he sighed.

He pulled her out, even more, treading ahead of her with careful footsteps. Her feet scrambled to find purchase, against the slippery rocks and mud. Kicking uselessly. Water doused her face. Her face! Oh, God, he was going to pull her under...

"Please please please take me back. I can't! I'll drown!"

So he had reduced her to begging. So what. She couldn't have cared less. The shore was waiting for her, a parent, calling out to its child, swept up in an ocean riptide Only John's hands to steady her, now. Gripping her upper arms, he was hyper-aware of the dangers of dragging a hysterical person into deep water. He handled her with utmost care. But the most dangerous part was yet to come.

"I'm going to cut your binds," he told her. "DON'T push me under. And don't claw my eyes out, either."

"No promises!" she gasped.

With a wry grunt of amusement, he sawed at the ropes behind her back using a pocket knife. While he cut, straight down the line, she kept still, afraid of the blade more than anything. She leaned forward, forced to brace her chest against his, distantly aware of the paper-thin material of her dress against his shirt. Their necks interlocked, her forehead rested against the smooth hair on the back of his head, and she got a nice view of the many lash marks, not quite covered by the tattoos on his back. _Oh my God..._

John's chest vibrated as he hummed, "There. You're free."

The ropes fell away in the water, sinking into the unknown. Rook brought her hands up and immediately planted them on his shoulders, broader than her own, though he was not a large man. Held to him so closely, she seemed to fit just right.

They looked at each other, face-to-face. Her mouth trembled, but she was lost for words. Breathless. All her splashing had soaked his hair, and a few pieces clung to his forehead, something she would have found irresistible, had she not been about to have a heart attack.

"Just one final thing to do," he said, before she could protest again. He cracked a devilish smile. A small part of him was enjoying her fear, but he was taking greater pleasure in making her face it.

"No no no, I _can't_ ," She shook her head, hair splaying out like seaweed. "Don't!"

" _Yes_ , you can," he urged.

His hands snaked up to her waist. She'd be a liar if she said it didn't get her adrenaline going more. Her heart thrummed in her throat. Her nipples poked through the thin material of the dress.

It did not go unnoticed.

"Don't act like this doesn't excite you, too," he breathed.

 _Nice. Real smooth,_  she thought, but she couldn't exactly reject the only thing keeping her afloat.

"I can't swim. I never learned," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Just breathe. I've got you."

Hardly comforting words, those. But she took a few breaths. Panting against him, he was like a wall. Okay, maybe this wasn't so bad, as long as she had him to grab onto.

"Do not," she demanded, "let me go."

He laughed a short, ringing note, which reverberated through her, sending a little thrill down her spine. _Did sounds carry differently, in water?_

"I wouldn't dare."

And with that, he sucked in a breath, pulling her down with him. Rook had enough time to grab some air, slam her mouth shut. As they sank, he kicked out, pushing them deeper into the void. She kept her eyes shut, cool patches of water brushing against her skin.

No sound, except the rush of the current. Paralyzed with fear, it was she, who let go. For a single moment, she was lost. Floating, in the cold, quiet dark. And the weird thing was, it wasn't altogether terrifying. It was serene. Peaceful. There was no cult down there. No violence. No conflict, tearing her heart in two. 

Her lungs started to burn, and she started to kick. Air. She needed air! Panic set in, a helplessness she never thought she could feel as grown policewoman.

Arms wound tight around her waist. She pulled, trying to get John to move, but he kept her down there with him, in their watery embrace. For a few more seconds, Rook wondered if it was all a sick game. If he was going to keep her down there, forever.

He kicked off the bottom, and propelled them to the surface. The moment she broke, Rook spit and gasped for air. Thankfully, missing John. He blew water off his mustache, drops plink'ing off his beard. He watched her lips as they settled, tempted.

"It's done. That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked.

She glared at him, shivering.

"You s-suck."

"Not as much as you."

A heated pause.

"Suck air, I mean."

"Uh-huh. S-Sure."

He held her, floating, in that deep spot in the water, for a few minutes more. Let her body adjust to the weightlessness. Just as his brothers had taught him, as a child. They were much less gentle with him. _Lesson learned_ , he thought.

"Want to go again?" he teased, shaking her.

She glared, and then pleasantly surprised him with his favorite word:

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Keep your eyes open. It's less scary, that way."

She shuddered. They held their breath, and he submerged her again. Not as deep, that time. Barely breaking the surface. Rook forced her eyes open. At the exact same time, John opened his.

The moonlight was strong enough to provide a dim, silvery glow. They regarded each other for a second, in that surreal place. Free of all weights and burdens, only each other for company. She watched, as he ran a hand through her rippling hair. He brought it closer, tracing it along her cheek, her jaw, tilting her chin up toward him. He brought their heads together, resting his forehead against hers.

Rook shut her eyes. Bubbles escaped her lips, making a tiny 'o' of shock. Her legs flailed a little, then grew still. Their noses touched. Lips, against hers, the bristles of his beard not so rough. He stayed there. She pressed not just her lips, but all of herself, into him, their bodies intertwining on their own. Heat pooled, below their navels. Each felt the other's pulse, against their chest. All fears were pulled away, with the current.

The moment quickly passed. Rook tore away first, pushing off him. She gasped, as he resurfaced with a bit more grace. She expected a victorious speech, but he was strangely quiet.

"John..." she started, trailing off. She wasn't sure if it was a thought, or a question, or if she only wanted to say his name. But it was enough.

He shook water out of his ears, splashing her like a certain cattle-dog mix she was missing dearly. Rook laughed. He guided her away from the deep, closer to the bank, until they both could stand.

"You have been properly cleansed," he told her, taking her hands in his. "The last time was...a mistake."

"I suppose you'll want to atone me, now," she said flatly, pulling her hands away. A weight seemed to settle on each of their shoulders, the closer they got to the shallows.

John shrugged.

"Atonement is not just about what I want. You have to want it, too. Or at least accept it."

She twisted her hair in her fingers, wringing it out. Still up to her hips in the creek, as if she had lived there her entire life.

"I'm not sure...what I want," she confessed. "I'm all confused."

He didn't respond, at first. He plucked a small, flat stone from the shallows, and skipped it. He counted twelve skips, before it sank with a plunk. Rook found her own and threw it in the same direction. Thirteen skips.

John rolled his eyes. "That makes two of us."

He remained there, water sloshing around his knees, as Rook got out, wringing the hem of her dress. He took in everything: her face in the moonlight, her body, how the dress clung to her curves, that figure which had first enticed him, underground, in the red room. That wasn't so special, though. Many enticing figures had danced in and out of his life, in many different forms. 

It was when she looked back at him, smiling, expectant, brave, arms folded across her chest, that he knew what name to give it.


End file.
